


How "Beethoven's Last Night" Came to Be Written

by Tanelet



Category: Doctor Who, Trans Siberian Orchestra
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanelet/pseuds/Tanelet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Musician and leader of Trans Siberian Orchestra, Paul O'Neill has an unusual visitor who takes him on a memorable journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How "Beethoven's Last Night" Came to Be Written

**Author's Note:**

> Dr. Who (the one in this story is the Tenth Doctor, played by David Tennant) belongs to the BBC. Paul O’Neill belongs to himself and he is a founder and producer for TSO. Beethoven belongs to the ages. I’m just paying tribute to all the genius contained among the lot of them.

December, 2000

It was a cold December afternoon, with the threat of snow hanging heavily in the air. Paul O’Neill pulled his leather jacket more tightly around him and hurried the last few steps to the theater’s stage door entrance. He nodded a thanks to the guard who held the door for him and gave a little sigh of relief at the warmth inside. There was no time to linger, however, as the sound checks had already started. 

Paul moved quickly to the back of the theater to check the visuals from an audience point of view. Even as he noted the placements of the musicians and the newly added lasers, his mind worried about the weather. This was only the second tour for the Trans Siberian Orchestra and he hoped that snow wouldn’t discourage the audience from coming. He remembered mentioning his concern to Bob Kinkel, a co-founder of TSO and master at the keyboards. Bob had laughed.

“This is Buffalo, Paul,” he’d said. “My hometown. Believe me, the fans aren’t going to let a little thing like snow keep them home.” Walking down the side aisle to the stage, Paul hoped he was right.

For the next two hours the band practiced, making sure of their movements, getting used to the new stage and getting the timing right on different numbers. Finally, they were all satisfied. Relaxing a bit, they swung into “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” - heavy-metal style. Paul smiled and shook his head.

“Well, that’s a different version, I must say.” Paul whipped around, startled at the unexpected voice. He frowned at the tall stranger standing in the wings.

“Do you have permission to be here?” he asked. 

“Oh yes,” the man replied. Paul thought his accent sounded English. He fished around in the pockets of his long overcoat and held up a small wallet. “There,” he flipped it open, “member of the press. Just wanted to have a look-see.”

“Your pass is blank,” Paul said, getting suspicious. “How did you get past the guard at the door? No-one is supposed to be here during rehearsals. Who are you, anyway?”

“Blank? You don’t see anything on the paper?” He seemed quite surprised, and looked at Paul closely. “Hmmm, interesting. Oh, I’m the Doctor. I’m not a danger. Really.” He nodded at the stage where the music had now changed to a guitar duel, seeing who could get through Beethoven’s “Flight of the Bumblebee” without stumbling. “Old Ludwig would love to hear that version!”

“ ‘Old Ludwig’ would probably have loved to hear any version of his music,” Paul couldn’t resist pointing out.

“True, his deafness was very difficult for him, particularly at the end. It was so hard to convince him that his music would stand the test of time,” the Doctor said, shaking his head sadly. 

O’Neill found himself intrigued by the stranger. “You make it sound as if you were there!” 

“W-e-l-l,” the man drew out the word, not exactly admitting or denying anything.

“Who are you, Doctor?” Paul asked. “And don’t say you’re from the press,” he warned, “because I’m not sure what you are, but I am sure you are not a reporter. What are you doing here?”

The Doctor cocked his head and studied the musician for a long moment. Then he seemed to come to a decision. “Instead of trying to tell you, why don’t I show you?” he offered. “Come with me.” With that he simply turned on his heel and walked away. Paul paused to yell to the men on stage, “Dinner break!” and headed off after him.

Of all the places he might have imagined as a destination, the tall, rectangular, blue wooden box hidden in the wings was not one. The door stood slightly ajar, golden light spilling out, and after a moment’s hesitation, Paul stepped inside. His jaw dropped at the sight of the large room full of intricate machinery. He walked slowly up to the Doctor, who was fiddling with various knobs at a control panel.

“It’s beautiful!” he exclaimed. 

“I knew I liked you,” the Doctor smiled. “You’re definitely not like everyone else. Ready? Here we go!”

There was a strange grinding hum and the box started bumping around. It didn’t last long, though, and then the sensation of movement stopped. The Doctor suddenly looked very seriously at Paul.

“Now, before we go out, I must have your solemn promise that whatever you see, whatever you hear, you will not interfere.”

“Go out ...?” Paul started, but the Doctor interrupted. 

“Promise,” he demanded and Paul slowly nodded his head.

“I promise,” he said, instinctively holding up his right hand. “No interfering.”

\- 2 -

If Paul had been surprised to find a large room inside a small box, he was absolutely stunned to step out of the door and find himself in an alleyway in the pouring rain. Lightening flashed brightly and thunder rumbled overhead. Before he could frame a question, his companion pulled him along at a run to a nearby doorway. Reaching inside his pocket, the Doctor pulled out a silvery tube, pointed it at the lock of the door and pushed a button. A blue light glowed at the tip and a moment later they stepped through the unlocked door.

“Where… what..?” Paul couldn’t even think of a proper question for all that he was experiencing.

“Shhh,” the Doctor warned. He quietly opened a nearby door, peeked in and then motioned for O’Neill to follow him. Inside the darkened room, there was just enough light coming through the windows for them to see each other. “Now listen,” the Doctor said very quietly. “We’re in Vienna and the date is March 26th, 1827. We’re in…”

“Beethoven’s house?” Paul had been quick to grasp the relationship between the city and date. “That date is the night he died. How is this possible? Is it real?”

“Yes, it’s real. It’s possible because the Tardis, my box out there, is a time and space machine. And I brought you here because I think you will appreciate what we’re about to see. But remember, we must stay hidden and you can only watch, nothing else. Right?”

The musician nodded, his head reeling with what was happening. He silently followed the Doctor down the hallway. Ahead he could see golden light spilling out from a doorway. They carefully slipped into the room, which turned out to be unoccupied. Even as he tried to take in all the details, he became aware of piano music coming from the adjoining room and his heart skipped a beat when he realized who must be playing.

\- 3 -

All of a sudden there was a dissonant crash of chords and the music stopped. The two visitors peered cautiously into the room.

There was the great composer, seated at a piano. His elbows rested on the keys and his hands covered his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was a mixture of despair and frustration.

“Why do I bother? What does it matter? Bah!” he struck the keys on the piano again. “My music is like the twittering of birds, heard today and forgotten tomorrow. Soon I will be gone and there will be nothing, nothing of worth left behind.”

Paul felt sorry for the obvious pain in the man’s voice. He understood the composer’s need to feel that his music had been worthwhile, that it mattered and it would be remembered after he was gone. He’d always felt that that drive was an intrinsic part of any composer.

Suddenly another voice spoke up. An older gentleman stepped up to Beethoven, laying his hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture.

“You music is important, Ludwig. More than you could even imagine. It will be remembered and revered for generations to come.”

Beethoven lifted his head and Paul could see unshed tears shimmering in his eyes. “If only I could believe this was true,” he murmured.

Paul tugged on the Doctor’s sleeve and they ducked back into the first room. “How can Beethoven hear him?” he whispered urgently. “He’s completely deaf by now. And for that matter, why do I understand them? I don’t speak German!”

The Doctor waived a dismissive hand. “It’s the effect of the Tardis. I’ll explain later if you want, but right now just trust me.” He gestured back toward the music room and Paul realized they were missing the conversation there.

“… not just performed for kings and queens, but also loved and taught to music students from all walks of life. It lifts them out of their everyday lives and gives them a glimpse of something greater than themselves.” The white-haired stranger spoke with assurance, and Paul could see from the light in Beethoven’s eyes that he believed him.

“Then… I have made a difference with my music?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, Ludwig, a great difference.”

Beethoven gave a great sigh. “I think, then, that I shall rest a bit. I am so tired.”

The other man helped him up from the piano bench and he moved stiffly over to a large, well-upholstered armchair. He sank into it and smiled up at the man. “You have set my mind at ease, Doctor” he said gratefully. “I shall just nap a bit and then work some more on my next symphony.” His eyes closed and as they watched his breathing slowed and then stopped. 

The man patted him on the shoulder and said softly, “Rest now my friend, you’ve earned it.” The Doctor and O’Neill shrank back into the shadows as he walked away. Just as he reached the door, a huge bolt of lightening struck nearby, followed by a violent peal of thunder that shook the house. He paused to look back at the other room, gave a half smile and swiftly walked away.

They waited a few moments and then made their way back to the Tardis. Once they were inside, Paul shook the rain from his hair and looked at the Doctor.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “Questions?” he prompted.

“Not as many as when we started,” Paul answered. Profoundly moved by what they’d just witnessed, he somehow found he simply wanted to accept the magic of the Tardis. All the technicalities didn’t seem that important. “Who was the other man in the room?” he asked. “He seemed to know how Beethoven’s music would last and what it would mean to the world.”

“Ah, well, you may find this a little hard to believe, but that was me.” Paul stared at him skeptically. The older man had looked nothing at all like this one. For the first time, the Doctor seemed a little uncomfortable. “It’s an earlier version of me.” Paul remained silent, and the Doctor fidgeted with a couple of knobs, starting up the machine again. He turned back. “I’m a time traveler,” he said flatly. “And sometimes things … happen, and I change form. That really was me, a me from many years ago. I arrived in Vienna and met Ludwig and, well, one thing led to another. I knew his time was up and I just couldn’t let him go, thinking that his music hadn’t mattered to the world.”

“So you interfered,” Paul smiled at him.

He grinned in reply. “Yes, I did. But I didn’t change anything in history, just gave a dying man some comfort. No rules against that.”

Before Paul could say anything else, the motion stopped and the Doctor gestured toward the door. “Home again in time for your concert,” he said.

Paul looked into his eyes (so many secrets locked in there, he could tell) and shook his hand. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I will never forget this night.” 

 

\- 4 -

April 2010:

Paul O’Neill stood at the back of the theater once again. This time it was filled to capacity with an enthusiastic crowd. The final chords of music died away and the lights on stage went out. Applause, cheers and whistles filled the air. After a moment the house lights came up for intermission and people streamed up the aisles, chattering excitedly about the show. “Beethoven’s Last Night” was turning out to be every bit as successful as he had hoped.

“I think,” said a quiet voice next to him, “that Old Ludwig would have been pleased.”

He turned, somehow not that surprised to see the Doctor standing there.

“I couldn’t get that night out of my head,” he replied. “It kept demanding to be written.”

The tall stranger nodded. “That’s how it is with great music,” he said. “It just won’t leave you alone.” He gestured towards the stage. “I love the lighting and the backdrop. Brilliant staging. The musicians, the singers - first class. I really do think Beethoven would have liked it.”

Paul smiled. “Well, if you have the time, I’ll give you a little tour after the second half finishes.”

The Doctor returned his smile. “I have all the time in the world.”


End file.
